


Memories Of Thunder

by TheCourtJester485



Series: Hannigraham One-shots! [4]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Canon, Caring Will Graham, Comfort, Dark, Do not post to another site, Domestic Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Fix-It of Sorts, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is a Mess, Husbands, Love, M/M, Married Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Mentioned Mischa Lecter, Repressed Memories, Smitten Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, and Will is there to support him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:48:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27683788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCourtJester485/pseuds/TheCourtJester485
Summary: After waking alone in the middle of the night, Will searches for Hannibal, only to find him reminiscing in his melancholy of a trauma long kept hidden outside the realm of his most intimate nightmares.And being the husband that he is, provides Hannibal comfort.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: Hannigraham One-shots! [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1775353
Kudos: 88





	Memories Of Thunder

A sense of unease stirs Graham from his slumber as thunder thrashes outside the room with rain hammering violently against the window glass. Rolling onto his side his arm outstretches to reach for the man beside him, but in his stead resides a cold absence. Dragging himself up his vision clears amidst a lightening flash revealing nothing but shadow in it’s wake. Graham tries to focus on his surroundings – the covers are unmade on Lecter’s side – that alone bears instant concern as his betrothed always made a fuss over neatness and order, never once forgetting to fix the bed prior to leaving it.

Cracks of light outlines the door where it hasn’t been properly closed, prompting him to clamber out of bed. Firstly, he opens the wardrobe for signs of hurried packing; much to his reprieve the hangers remain stocked with various sweaters, finely tailored suits and ties. The singular pair of shoes missing are that of Lecter’s slippers. Approaching the bedroom door he’s slow to grip the knob as multiple thoughts transgress through his weary mind. Questions like, _Where the hell is he?_ _He didn’t leave, but if he did, why_ _didn’t he wake me_ _?_ _What time even is it_ _?_ The hallway lies desolate in it’s ambiguity, Graham’s barefooted treads are soundless against the stone-cold floor spanning ahead of him. Another roar of thunder plunges him in blackness. He flicks the switch beside him several times but nothing happens: the power’s out.

“Shit…”

Reaching the end he feels in front of him, the living room doors are closed. In ideation of disrupting something of significance he’s careful not to alarm his spouse by pressing his ear to them, yet all he hears is distant impacts of rain and the swelling storm that continues to rage. Perhaps he’s journaling in his study or reading in front of the fire. Before easing open the doors he loiters a moment longer, accompanying his lonesome are the monotonous clicks of his eyelids.

“Hannibal?” he calls.

From another flash, his focus darts to his right upon entry; the accent-table has a single rose shaped candle glowing beside a photo that he doesn’t recognise. Picking it up for closer inspection the air fills with the sickly sweet aroma of vanilla.

Squinting at the image, it’s of a young boy, presumably no older than six or seven with a little girl, maybe three years old, fondly clinging to him in his arms. Her honey blonde hair is tousled where it’s blown in the breeze, in the background he notes a copper bathtub shimmering in the sunlight besides a clothes line and eggplant bush, likely deliberate in their posing. The boy's simper is prideful as he holds her. They look happy. If Graham closed his eyes, he believes he’d smell the freshness of the grass and warmth of the sun. He flips the photo over.

 _~_ _Lithuania:_ _June 23rd, 19_ _8_ _4_ _~_

Returning it to it’s place he turns around to face the window at the opposite end of the room. Several bookshelves stand tall on either side, the plumb purple drapes half drawn allow the moonlight to peek with it’s frost-pale beauty through the rain. It’s then he finally see’s him – statue like and as silent as death. For an instant, he wonders if Lecter can hear his heart beating, if not, then he can undoubtedly scent his apprehension. The man’s always had a heightened sense of smell and taste and imagination. Either way, he’s uncaring of such a thought. Curiosity draws him closer. Lecter’s leant back against the seat with an elbow perched on the armrest; he’s holding something. The man’s stillness is nothing new. The doubts over his safety subdue from Graham’s mind, thankful he didn’t dream this last year they’ve been living in the cabin.

“Hannibal?” he wanders around the lounge couch, crouching down in front of him. Head turning back to the window once more he utters; “What’re you staring at?”

Lecter remains quiet. The maroons appear collected yet deeply saddened; there’s a heaviness to them that Graham has witnessed a rare number of times before, he could count them on one hand if he wanted. He shuffles his weight onto both knees and rests a gingerly hand over Lecter’s own atop his thigh. His former psychiatrist’s attention at long last pries away from the storm.

“Hello, Will...”

“What’s going on, are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m alright. I had trouble sleeping. My apologise for leaving you. I merely didn’t wish to wake you now that your nightmares are less frequent.” he says softly, entwining their fingers together.

“They’re near non-existent now, thanks to you.” he half-smiles. “So, you gonna tell me why you’re sitting here in the dark, rather than burying your head in the back if my neck?”

His face barely changes as he expels a gentle sigh, though Graham does catch the corner of his lips curving upward ever so slightly. In the past, if Lecter was struggling to sleep, he’d pull him close from behind and wrap his arms around him, nuzzling into the crook of his neck or breathing in the comfortingly familiar scent of his oaken brown locks; often bestowing unto them a kiss when doing so.

But not this time.

“Sorry to disappoint.” his attention falls to their conjoined hands, “For a change, it was I whom the nightmares came to torment.”

A flash of lightning briefly illuminates them and the Lithuanian’s upper lip twinges; a look akin to that of petty irritation or annoyance as his eyes grow sharp, just for a moment. Graham knows whatever this is isn’t strictly the result of _any_ nightmare. _W_ _hat could possibly disturb Hannibal “The Cannibal” Lecter?_ The dying candle by the door linger in Graham’s peripherals; his lips part amidst a sudden realisation: _the_ _kids_ _in the photograph._ He recalls Lecter telling about his younger sister less than a year ago, that she, and their parents died when they were very young. He bites his tongue in vexation for lacking his typical perspicaciousness. Snapping out of it, Lecter cants his head as if aware of his discovery, studying his reaction; even when tired, he’s still as inquisitive as ever.

“Mischa?”

“Today is her birthday… she visits me in my dreams annually.”

His voice came soft, etched in sorrow when the words left his mouth. Several strands of his ashen hair falls over a brow. Graham rises, climbing into his lap to straddle him; he kisses his forehead before sweeping the hair away. Lecter gazes up at him in adoration, wrapping his arms around his waist and slowly circling a hand beneath the shirt with a tender caress.

“Go on.” he encourages, raking his fingers through his scalp. “You can tell me.”

“In the years prior to meeting you, I would see her in my dreams regularly – or _hear_ her, more accurately... Unfortunately, she wasn’t a pleasant quality in my dreams.” he breaks to swallow, “Each time... I would be shackled by the neck in that decaying barn, forever condemned to hearing the screeching cries of my sister as the soldiers stole her from me, my beloved Mischa…”

Pausing again, Lecter’s eyes seal shut like blinds. Graham listens intently to the story he’s never heard. His damaged heart begins to sink, the pain and loss spilling onto him as if it were his own as the man continues; still closing them to him as if shielding Graham from the onslaught of despairing anguish buried deep within their core. After all, with a past such as his – with trauma as black as his – it’s far greater than dark on the other side.

“Once her screaming ceases… the chain around my neck falls beside my worn booted feet. I go to run so that I can find her, but, instead I see the deer with an arrow in it’s leg – it’s lying there – half dead and bleeding in the snow. Without fault I freeze. I’m not even gifted the ability to shout, or move, I’m unable to act. There’s just crackles of thunder and the wounded deer, groaning in pain… I always wake up after I hear the sharp hiss of the axe being swung... again…” his fingers curl, arms tightening around him. “That’s what they used, Will, that’s how they –”

The words trail away into the rumbling of the storm and Graham shushes him, pulling him into an embrace. Cradling his head he murmurs into his ear, “You were just a child. It wasn’t your fault what happened. To _either_ of you.”

“Perhaps not, but…”

“Hannibal, it wasn’t your fault.” he repeats.

“If you knew what I did, what I was tricked into doing when it happened in reality… I’m fearful you may wish to run from me.”

“Little late for that, divorces are expensive.”

Lecter smiles weakly into his shoulder, grasping Graham’s shirt at the centre of his back while concealing a tiny, scratched silver bracelet in the other hand. He’s feared two things throughout his life: the death and memory of his sister being forgotten and the loss of Will Graham. To lose both would mean the end of him; just like with the loss of Mischa in his beginning, the loss of Will is where he’ll find his ending.

“Will, after they slaughtered her – they fed me a broth the next day – starvation had almost killed me at that point so I believed it to have been the deer. But it was _her_. They feasted on my dear Mischa, then they fed her to me… For a decade, I made myself believe an alternate turn of events rather than what truly happened. I made myself believe it was the deer… I needed it to…”

“Our minds concoct all sorts of fantasies when we don’t want to believe something. We construct fairy tales, and we accept them.” Graham says in attempts to soothe.

“Although the nightmares never faded, I used to wake up screaming when I dreamt of Mischa.”

“When did you stop?”

“The night you agreed to leave Baltimore with me.” he pulls back. “Call it codependency, but having you here has indeed benefited all that I am. At least, the more human parts, if any remain. Do you still wish to be by my side despite what I just admitted? Although painful, I would understand if you desired the opposite, to run.”

“It _wasn’t_ your fault.”

He takes Lecter’s face in his hands and kisses him. It’s not taken the heartache away, his personal being here can never grant him that. But it’s been made a modicum more bearable by Graham’s lips on his and the sincerity in his comforts. Lecter knows he is a monster, that he has done horrific, and unforgivable deeds… However, this is the one horror that he _can_ truly be forgiven for. Subsequent form their captivity in the decrepit barn with the crushed hope Mischa would be returned to him, the eight year old boy died with his sister in the snow that winter. And from that, Hannibal Lecter emerged from the aftermath.

“I only see her on her birthdays now. Rooted deep at the heart of my memory palace is her room; identical to the one she had at Lecter castle before we fled. It’s the only way I _am_ able to keep her alive.”

Graham runs a thumb over Lecter’s wedding ring, “Do you see Mischa now?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what you see.”

He sighs through his nose, somewhat at peace since he awoke, “She’s smiling. She’s standing beside her copper tub, naming her favourite colours and flowers – and she’s smiling.”

**Author's Note:**

> A blend of the show & the prequel novel, Hannibal Rising; I did swap the years over from 1944 to 1984 to fit with the present time period though.
> 
> Thanks for reading, guys :-)


End file.
